The Sufferer And The Witness
by crovvley
Summary: It's the apocalypse, and Dean Winchester has been miraculously brought back from the dead. The Winchester's had been training at a refugee facility, until their entire world somehow crashes down even farther and the truth is revealed. Also, who is this man named Castiel who claims to be an angel? Rated M for sexual content and mild violence.
1. Prologue

Castiel's blood was warm and sticky on Dean's hands. The metallic taste lingered in his mouth, his lips tasting salty as his tongue ran across the chapped surface. There was blood everywhere, everywhere. It was pooled in dark puddles and splattered against the white contrast of the angel's clothes. The substance was decorating Dean's clothing, blood matted into his hair and smeared onto his skin like paint on a canvas. Then it was all over his hands, covering every inch of skin as if he had washed them in the stuff. It was a classic scene of guilt; kneeling there with red sticky blood lathering one's hands, eliminating any doubt about the events that had taken place. The wounded body, still breathing, still gasping for sweet air, added on to the proof.

Dean was too numb to feel anything remotely like guilt.

He felt empty, like a void inside him had opened up and consumed every molecule and every part of him, leaving him a useless and blank shell. Any sign of thought process or reaction was out of the question. Dean was stunned, incapable of performing anything except kneeling there next to Castiel's gasping body, staring at the sticky mess covering his hands. Red consumed his vision. The color tinted the air, causing Dean to blink, stirring slightly from the comatose state that had overtaken him. His green eyes fluttered, the scene in front of him finally impacting him like a shockwave. Oh god... Dean thought, his eyes widening at the sight of his hands. A sound resembling a cry escaped from his throat as he tried in a desperate attempt to wide the blood off his hands by wiping it on his jeans. The gesture did no more but smear it, causing more of a mess.

The guilt came next as his eyes lifted to rest on Cas's nearly lifeless body. More blood covered Castiel than it had Dean, painted over him like a sheet. The angel emitted a cough, the red substance dripping down from his lips. In an attempt to cry out his name, it came out more like a choking sound a gutted animal would make rather than the fallen angel's name. Dean would have lunged forward to cradle him in his arms, but it was as if an invisible barrier was holding him back. He struggled against the nonexistent restraints, pushing his body against it, wanting, needing, to get closer to Castiel. Slamming his body against the invisible wall repeatedly, he continued the motion until there was a sudden release, as if whatever had been holding him back had shattered into a million pieces. He unceremoniously fell onto the broken body lying in front of him. Sobs racked his body, though the man had been trying to hold them back.

Suddenly it was impossible for him to breath. It was as if his breath had caught, the air scratching and fighting against his throat in an unsuccessful attempt to get out. That mixed with the sobs, Dean was thrown into a coughing fit, having to clutch his stomach. The angel finally stirred, reaching a feeble hand out. A mumble escaped his lips, as if he had been trying to form words though he was physically incapable. But Dean was able to make them out. Dean was able to make them out perfectly. "Dean…"

Then Castiel died cradled in his arms.

After kneeling there for a moment that felt like forever, hot tears streaming down Dean's face and inaudible choked sobs, a low chuckle filled the air. The sound was familiar, but in a way that Dean only knew that he had heard it before, though he couldn't place whose it was. The low gravelly voice spoke, the sly chuckle tugging at his words. "Well done, Dean, well done..."

It hurt too much to speak. Even if Dean had wanted to, he doubted that he would even be capable of words. It wasn't like he had never killed before, he had, probably more than the normal person. Death was the norm, and greeted Dean like a long lost friend with any chance it got. This was different, though. There was no way in all of creation and all that was good that Cas was actually lying there dead right in front of Dean. There was no way his hands were soaked in his blood and yet another death was the doing of Dean. None of this exists, the hunter finally decided. This was all a dream because oh godhe did not kill Cas there was no way in hell, no possible freaking way. His friend's lifeless body strown out under him proved otherwise. At that point, a frustrated cry escaped the Winchester's throat, his hands coming up to his face to cover his eyes yet also dirting his face with the sticky wet blood.

"Oh, Dean, what a mess you've made." The sly voice that had tugged at his mind spoke again, though this time it appeared to be closer by, as if the speaker was physically in front of Dean. The words were spoken with a strong accent, mock disappointment and pity obviously displayed. "Dean, uncover your eyes."

It took him a moment to register the request, and even then he was hesitant. Slowly sliding his slick hands off his face he uncovered them to see a familiar man in a pristine black overcoat standing a few feet away from him, his hands folded together behind his back. It felt as if Dean should've remembered him, at least his name, but nothing came to him. The man felt so...familiar. Dean would have cursed at himself for not remembering, but he had ran out of insults to throw at himself since Cas… The sleek accented voice broke Dean out of his thoughts once more. "I believe I owe you a favor, Winchester."

"Who are you?" The low rough voice that came from Dean's throat surprised him, partially because it didn't sound like his and also because he still was positive he wasn't capable of words. Or really doing anything, for that matter.

A look a fake disapproval was the next expression to play out on the man's features. Everything about him seemed to be fake and untrustworthy, and Dean still couldn't shake off the feeling that he knew him. "You don't remember me? I'm hurt Winchester." The man scorned, his mock expression fading back to his usual smug smile and glinting brown eyes. "I'm Crowley, and that's all you need to know for now."  
A weak cough emitted from Dean before he spoke once again in a shaky voice. "I…I know you." It sounded like a statement, though the hunter had been trying to phrase it like a question.

The man scoffed before he answered. "Of course you know me, what did they do to you- Oh." A look of realization struck Crowley's face, his features growing grim for a moment before his ever famous sly charming aura returned. "Oh yes, this is good. Silly me for not remembering." A mocking smile, the man seeming completely indifferent to the dead angel at his feet. "You did well, Dean."

"I- What did I do?" The words scratched at his throat, bringing him pain just to speak.

Crowley's eyes dropped to Castiel"s bloodied body for a moment before he returning his piercing stare back to Dean. "I think you can answer that yourself."

The statement caused a whirlwind of memories and emotions to crash onto Dean, the weight of it all causing the quietest cry to claw at his throat. Crowley cleared his throat, beginning to pace side to side. "So back to why I came here." His eyes were malicious, piercing. "As you can see, the effects of Hell are already rubbing off on you. You probably don't even remember where you are or why you're here."

No, Dean didn't remember that. Suddenly his mind was racing, yearning to remember where he was and why he was there. Those thoughts brought yet another question to his mind, why did he kill Cas? What the hell had happened? He loved Castiel. Castiel had pulled him back together, quite literally. Dean's soul had been completely and totally obliterated when… damn it Dean couldn't remember that either. In that moment, the only memories that resided were those of Castiel slowly but surely piecing Dean's soul together. In this time, the Winchester had fallen for him, absolutely and totally in love with the man. So why the hell was he know laying there dead with his blood painted all over Dean's hands?

"Don't try to remember, Dean. Those memories are now since long gone." Crowley said as if he had read Dean's mind.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean then asked, his eyes tearing away from Castiel to look at the other man.

This caused an eye roll from Crowley. "Don't you get it, boy? None of that matters. Not any more. Now will you let me finish what I want to tell you? I believe you would want to hear this life saving advice."

Dean hesitated before he silently nodded, waiting for the other to continue. Crowley scoffed in that arrogant manner of his before speaking. "So your beloved here, -you two are quite sweet, actually,- is quite obviously dead. Quite tragic. I figured you want your kitten here to come back to life so you can live happily ever after and such."

"This is a trick." Dean immediately assumed.

Crowley shrugged. "Maybe it is, but does that matter any more? Now shush." He took a breath before he continued. "I can save him. I will save him and your favor will be repaid so we won't have to worry about it anymore. No more debts and we can just go back to hating each other."

"What's the catch? There's always a catch." Dean had now regained his voice, though the words still clawed at his throat, leaving a slight sting.

"Ah yes, my favourite part." Yet another smug smile. " You see, I'm not actually in control of this, but you ought to know. You won't remember any of this. As you've witnessed, your memory has already been fading. You won't remember your precise Castiel and how in love with him you were. You won't remember that you were the cause of his death." There was a pause, with Dean could only figure was for emphasis. "Cas, here, will though. He'll remember it all. Perhaps you'll meet again once you're out of...here, but there's no way that those memories can return to you. So what do you say, Deano?"

"I want to know where I am." Dean growled, causing yet another exasperated sigh from Crowley.

"Listen here, Winchester, I can't tell you that. Even I, too, have orders. My orders were simple; Come here, save your angel, then collect you. I was told that you'd be easily persuaded and I wouldn't have to do much convincing, so let me ask again, is this a deal?"

"Whose orders are you following?" Dean's voice was demanding, his gaze turning cold.

"Dear-" His own words were cut off as if an invisible gag was put around his mouth. Crowley rolled his eyes then started again in a simplistic and mocking voice. "What don't you understand about I can't tell you? You aren't special boy. Now do we have a deal or not?"

The hunter was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. His eyes flickered between Castiel and Crowley, undeciding. In a sudden movement, Dean leaned down and gently placed his lips against Castiel's cold lifeless ones. It was a short kiss, one that meant goodbye. One that Dean would regret forgetting. "Fine, it's a deal." His voice caught on the last word, causing his words to hitch up to an embarrassingly high pitch.

"Great, about time." A sly cat like grin settled on his lips. "Normally my deals are sealed with a kiss, but this one is different. This one needs something else."  
"What do you need me to do?" Dean himself couldn't tell if his voice was in a low growl or a high plea.

"Just your words. And, this-" His hand was placed on Dean's shoulder, causing him to flinch. "Great doing business with you, Winchester."

Then just like that, both Crowley, Dean, and Castiel's beaten body had vanished from the scene.

* * *

Author's Note; I won't be updating this story very often, but I'll try to have a new chapter up every one or two weeks. Thanks for reading so far and I hope you enjoyed this first part and will also enjoy the future chapters :) Feel free to leave any comments and/or suggestions for my writing or the story


	2. Audience of One

_Six months later..._

It was silent except for the sound of foot fall crunching leaves and breaking twigs, and the occasional wolf howl or bush rustling. The canopy of trees hid the pin pricked night sky, moonlight sneaking in through branches to illuminate the path below. Dean Winchester sneaked stealthily through the woods, a loaded revolver ready in his hands. Suddenly he froze in a manner that a rabbit would that had just spotted a stalking predator, before surveying the new area then waving his hand. A group of four others poised identically to Dean appeared out of the bushes. They watched Dean as if he weighed their life in the hands, attentively awaiting his next instructions. Dean nodded before continuing the expedition into the woods.

A tall man with long brown hair made his way to the front of the squad, placing himself next to Dean. Instead of gliding his usual cold glare and telling the man to get back into line, he smiled. The larger man smiled back, an unspoken connection between the two. Their momentary bond was quickly diminished when Dean sharply drew his attention back to the mission.

Bobby had sent the group of five on the patrol, claiming that there were reports of activity within the area. Dean was automatically, though unsurprisingly, chosen as mission leader. It was no mystery that Dean Winchester was Bobby's favorite. Bobby had practically raised the guy, taking in him and his brother when they were young. He'd found them struggling by and found heart somewhere to foster the boys. Bobby Singer was pretty much their father, which really was a perk at times considering he was one of the main leaders in the refugee camp.

One thing you should always keep in mind is that Bobby is as tough as nails.

Sometimes it may seem like he just doesn't care. Once there were jokes floating around about how Bobby must have lost his heart in a battle, but they ceased soon after he took in the this never stopped him from handing out the necessary punishments.

Dean learned his lesson the first year he lived at the camp. There was a strict set of rules regarding food in order to savor and preserve it. Refugees were given meal plans based on their weight, health, age, and such. They were required to follow it at the three meals served on a daily basis. After living on whatever Dean could scrounge up from the road for countless years, the abundance of food was overwhelming. With Dean and his brother just getting in the habit of having such frequent and savory meals, their servings were smaller. Dean thought this was entirely unfair, and hated seeing Sam complain, so he broke one of the first rules he had been told at the camp.

Dean had _not_ been informed about the guards or overall security placed to safeguard the stockpile of food, so he was caught quickly and easily on his not so well planned robbery. The look of disappointment on Bobby's face was unforgettable when two bulky guards dragged Dean into his quarters. Bobby shook his head, but carried out the needed punishment. Dean wasn't allowed to leave his room for a week, and he got a pretty little brand burned onto his wrist. The mark was nothing too drastic, just a small oval to reprimand him for his foolish actions. Dean used to cringe whenever he thought about the hot metal scorching the mark into his skin.

"Dean, you there?" Bobby's rough voice asked through Dean's earpiece. The camp had a few of these earpieces, only given to those high in charge or issued to a mission squad. Advanced technology was not rare at camp, though it was handled with extreme caution and care.

Dean doesn't fail to lose his intense state of concentration when Bobby's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Yeah, yeah Bobby, I'm here."

There's a condescending Bobby-like snort on the other end of the mic before he speaks again. "You found anything yet, boy?"

Dean bites down on his lip before continuing to lurk through the dark woods. "No, not yet, sir."

"Right. Keep going. Tune me in if you find anything." Is the last thing Bobby has to say before the line goes static.

Dean turns off his earpiece, ending the conversation until Bobby or whoever else tunes in to chat with him, or more likely, give him orders. His quiet footfall continues to hit the ground, the group behind him mimicking his movements. They'd been patrolling for about an hour, and Dean was beginning to wonder if something was getting to the old man's head. The only thing Dean could imagine jumping out at him from these woods was a werewolf. He switched his gun to a pistol loaded with silver bullets just in case.

"Dean, do you think we should just tell Bobby to end the search? There's nothing." The man next to Dean suggested in a hushed voice.

Dean's eyes only merely flick over to him when he speaks. "No, Sam, he told me we should keep going."

Sam doesn't reply, though his silent protest looms menacingly in the air. The group finally decides to split after ten more minutes. Sam heads off with a pretty blonde girl named Jess. Ash and Pamela head off in the opposite direction from the other pair, and Dean continues on his own solitary trek forward to delve deeper into these woods.

The temperature seems to plummet immediately after they all part. Dean regrets not bringing his jacket, and pulls his body closer into himself. His jaw clenches as the chill air rakes it's claws against his skin. For a moment he almost considers calling back Sam or one of the others, since he can't even hold his gun straight thanks to his body's relentless shivering. Though he'd rather continue his venture alone, and his brother doesn't tease him about being stubborn for nothing.

The sound of snapping branches and falling leaves from above pulls Dean out of his mental pity party. He's automatically alert, the cold breeze meaning nothing in the moment. When he looks up to the tree tops looming over him, he can't say he's not surprised when he sees nothing glaring back down at him. Though this doesn't erase his suspicions. His hands clamp on tighter to his pistol, clicking a bullet into place and resting a tense finger just over the trigger.

What sounds similar to rustling leaves comes again, but this time, Dean can't help but think it sounds like fluttering wings. Wings? Yeah, there was definitely a screw coming loose in his head. Dean shook his head as if it would make the idea go away, and then took another cautious step forward. Then that sound came again. The Winchester refused to believe it was just leaves this time.

The world stilled around him, as if it was holding it's breath for whatever was about to happen. Dean tensed with it, his breath catching in his throat. Moments like this were not rare for him. They would often occur right before a battle or on missions when something unfortunate was about to happen. This did not exactly bring comfort to the Winchester.

Dean hadn't realized he had stepped into a clearing until the sound of his boots crunching leaves on the ground vanished. A thick veil of fog consumed the forest floor, dissipating the further up it reached into the ceiling of stars. The night sky was still hidden by the labyrinth of tree branches, only allowing a few fragile beams of moonlight to peak through. Underneath Dean's worn boots was a damp ground of dirt coating the oddly leafless surface. The scent of after dew was strong, and Dean had to pull his boots out of the sinking ground that was trying to swallow him up. It was odd, Dean couldn't help but notice, that the ruset fall leaves were still hanging loosely on their branches, but only a few of the frail things were actually on the ground. It was as if the wind had blown away anything off of the forest surface, leaving it a muddy misty canvas.

The world releases it's bottled in breath when the sound of breaking branches and snapping twigs fills Dean's ears. Dean is immediately at attention, standing straighter and pointing his gun at whatever invisible interrogator is about to appear. There's nothing in his sight right now, nothing to kill or protect himself from, but he knows what's about to follow. This scene is all too familiar, and Dean has an idea how it's going to play out. Some nasty will jump out at him, most likely spewing some crap about demons and the end of the world or how Dean Winchester will pay for what he's done, or just summing it all up with a threatening roar or hiss before lunging for the kill. Then Dean will end it's life in a heartbeat, probably using his knife or gun.

What Dean didn't expect was for it to come crashing through the trees in a blur of dark colors in a large mass. All Dean could make out in the falling black smudge was a glimpse of a near human-like figure. The form bursted through the cascade of twigs, taking down several branches with it. It landed on the ground with a huge thud accompanied by the sound of rustling feathers and a sympathy of snapping trees. In that moment Dean realized that the huge masses concealing the human frame were, indeed, wings. At least, that was what they looked like in the dimly lit impact, the mist parted around the new arrival only to retake its place and hide the lump of jet-black wings in it's curtain. A few lone feathers floated aimlessly in the air, and Dean watched as they fell soundlessly into the fog.

Dean was on the verge of being both amazed and terrified. In his state of awe at the whatever that was that had rammed to earth, his aim had become limp, his gun now lying next to his feet. After Dean realized that whatever was lying seemingly unconscious veiled by a cavern of feathers was probably dangerous and or not there for a friendly chat, Dean scrambled to pick back up his weapon then pointed it at the unmoving shape. For a split second he was conflicted between shooting at it or not. "_Shoot first, ask questions later."_ His father used to tell him. It seemed like the necessary thing to do, shoot at it before it got to him. But Dean wanted to know what this thing, what this creature was. He wanted to see what this character that had fallen seemingly from the sky and collapsed into the murk shielding the floor had to say, even though every one of Dean's instincts screamed run.

Silence overtook each one of his senses as there was still no signs of movement. It was a tense stillness, with just a splash of unease that slowly crept into the atmosphere. Dean hasn't realized that he had spoken his thoughts until his words broke the anxious quietness . "You're an angel, aren't you?"

But angels don't exist. Demons exist. Vampires and werewolves and monsters that rip your heart out and make you watch as they devour it exist. Dean's mother was wrong when she sang gentle promises to him every night that angels were watching over him. That was before she died in a fire that Dean himself set.

It was an accident, of course, it's always an accident. Except when it isn't. Except when a little boy plays with the matches he's been warned to stay away from just because a voice whispering in his head suggests it's a good idea. Dean never really thought about the voice that crept into his thoughts to make gentle proposals and empty promises until after he watched his mother burn to a crisp on the ceiling. He never told his father about the voice, cause crazy people hear voices in their head, and Dean was not crazy. Dean was just the poor heroic boy who ran back into his flaming house to save his baby brother. He was just the boy who couldn't do anything while watching life as he knew it crumple to ash in a blazing inferno. John never found out about the matches (or the voice, for that matter), but after that night when his house and wife went up in smoke, a flip switched in Dean and Sammy's beloved father.

So, no, angels were not real.

Even if they were, Dean figured they'd be as useless as crap. There was no fluffy halo and wings, and none of that guardian shit. Dean didn't believe in angels, he'd never seen one, and they'd never been there for him.

Dean was about to throw a stone or jab at the fallen whatever-it-is, when suddenly it's wings snapped up in a sudden movement. This sends plumes of soot colored feathers shooting into the air only for them to fall down like light drifts of snowflakes. When the large wings flare into the open area, practically filling up the entire clearing, the owner of these wings is revealed. The wings remind Dean of marionette strings, controlling the puppet of a man; When they flick up, the body is brought up with them. Next there's a brilliant flash of light, momentarily blinding Dean disregarding his attempt to shield his eyes. He squints open his eyes, a careless hand still positioned to guard his sight if necessary.

The figure is still too far away to make out any details. After Dean is done comprehending the whole wing ordeal (which happen to be one of the most amazing sights he's seen) he notices that the human shape is most likely male. Broad shoulders dressed in what appears to he a trench coat of sorts from Dean's distance. The remnants of that binding light still linger, illuminating this newcomer in some sort of heavenly glow. This all just adds to the fact that the wings spreading out of the man have to be one of the most brilliant, beautiful things Dean had ever seen. They twitch slightly, as if they're being stretched after being enclosed in a tight space for a long time. Dean can't help but wonder if they're at their full wingspan because _damn_ those things are _huge._

Dean didn't realize his breath had caught in his throat until it was released in a near panicked exhalation when the angel- the whatever it was- began to stride closer to where Dean was standing. The sky grumbled, and in a flash of lighting the creatures wing's disappeared into the shadows. Dean scrambled to ready his weapon and did what he had been taught all his life; He shot.

This had absolutely no effect. Dean's bullet didn't slow him or make him come charging faster, and when Dean could finally make out his features; he seemed calm. If Dean had ever thought about what an angel would look like, this man was that. The midnight shadows still hid the tiny details of his face, but Dean could make out the main features in the glow that seemed to follow him. A sharp jawline was carved into his face, his appearance overall seeming crafted by the high heavens. Plush, though chapped, lips were accented, but not the main attraction. Messy dark hair was tousled on his head, a stubble noticeable though not unappealing on his face. Dirt was smeared on his checks along with several faded cuts and scraps.

The man had the bluest eyes Dean has ever seen. Even in the dark night, those blue eyes were still prominent. They were the sort of eyes you could drown in if you stared at them long enough. They were the sort of eyes that people could write a thousand poems and metaphors about, but all Dean could muster to think was that they were fucking gorgeous.

Good thing Dean had learned from an early age that beauty is deceiving.

He looked smug, almost. Amused perhaps was a better word. Dean cursed silently at himself when he realized that his breath had ceased in the back of his throat once more. The blue eyed man continued forward, getting closer and closer until he was in striking distance. Dean couldn't quite tell if his expression was predatory or beckoning, but he knew that anything that got this close was usually not looking to make friendly small talk. Bullets were useless, as Dean has found, so he pulled out his second best option; his knife. Without thinking twice, he plunged his jagged metal dagger into the man's heart.

Threatening was still not quite the word Dean would use to describe how the man looked when Dean practically had himself pressed against him, the knife currently in his heart as pointless as it would have been to stick him with a toothpick. Their eyes met,and _dear God how could anything be that blue..._

Dean quickly scampered away, leaving his knife buried in the mam wearing the trenchcoat. He looked down, as if just noticing the piece of metal inserted into him, and gazed at it curiously before pulling it out effortlessly. It clamored to the ground, and Dean was too awestruck to worry about it sinking into the mud. The angel business man guy even had the audacity to not even shed a bit of blood at the wound Dean had inflicted. Though, then again, why would Dean of thought that someone-something- so magnificent as him would bleed?

"Who are you?" Dean mentally praised himself that he didn't stammer, though he could only imagine he looked so timorous compared to this man. It was taking everything Dean had not to cower and back away.

The winged man tilted his head in an almost hypnotizing way. When he spoke, Dean pretended not to notice how his own skin grew goosebumps at his rough voice. "I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition. My name is Castiel, I'm an angel of the lord."

There's something grand about the way that the guy, Castiel, speaks. He sounds and looks like a king, a god maybe, even with all too messy hair and dirt smudged onto his cheeks. The swirling mist around them adds to the effect.

A wave of recognition hits Dean like a freight train his intense blue stare. The Winchester frantically racks his brain for a connection, but nothing he can remember is drawn to the sudden wave of recollection. Then it's gone, and Dean is left to decide it was just some weird coincidence or phenomenon.

_Raised you from perdition..._ His words echoed in Dean's head until something clicked. _Oh. _"T- That was you?"

Six months ago Dean had been miraculously brought back from the dead after being buried under the ground for four months. He'd clawed out of his grave then stumbled his way back to the camp. Needless to say, everyone was both shocked and confused. He was rushed into an emergency meeting that only included Bobby, Sam,and himself. There they tried to figure out how the hell Dean had been brought back, and who or what had done the deed. But Dean only knew as much as they knew and couldn't answer any of their questions. All Dean had from his trip to the dead was a red hand print on his left upper arm. It was tense to the touch, but whenever Dean let his fingers ghost over the print an odd sensation spread through him that Dean couldn't quite tell if he enjoyed or despised. He avoiding pressing it as much as he could.

Then the memories came. First they were just hints of a thought, a weird flash of remembrance Dean just couldn't place. Then they were occasional dreams. Then the dreams transformed into nightmarish memories that kept Dean from sleeping. The dreams were so real that he would wake up screaming in a hot sweat, so eventually Dean would just avoid sleep all together. Next it was that the memories haunted him not only in the night, but also in the daylight hours. A friend's laughter would remind Dean of the bloodcurdling laughs his tormentor would give at Dean's pain. The sound of a fork scraping against a plate stirred up the thought of screams, both his and others.

Dean never told anyone that he remembered every single minute of Hell. He didn't tell anyone that he recalled Alistair tearing his flesh apart every day for thirty years. Dean never brought up that for the last ten years he spent his time tying souls to the rack and mindlessly torturing them until they didn't have enough energy to scream. He tortured them until they couldn't even fear him.

Yet, Dean still had no clue he had gotten out of Hell.

And now here comes this, this _angel,_ Castiel. Castiel that fell from the trees and claimed that he raised Dean, that he was the one who saved Dean from damnation. So why exactly couldn't Dean remember him?

"Yes, Dean. That was me." Castiel assured then tilted his head. "You doubt me."

At this Dean gave a shallow laugh, shuffling on his feet and looking away from the angel. "Yeah, I doubt you. What would an _angel _want to save me or whatever? I was in Hell for a reason."

"Just as you were saved for a reason." Castiel said immediately.

Dean snorted. "And that is?"

"God commanded it."

"Oh, so now's there's a god?"

Castiel blinked. "Yes, Dean, there is."

Dean hadn't even accepted the fact that supposedly angel's were real, and honestly he still would of been in doubt if it wasn't for the fact the guy had freakin' _wings. _Maybe it was just an illusion, maybe dean had merely imagined the magnificent things.

Castiel spoke again before Dean could reply. "You have no faith." He observed.

"Yeah, you're right with that." Dean muttered, then unable to meet Castiel's stare. "And why should I? What the hell would _God _want with me?"

"You are the righteous man, Dean. You have an important role to play." He spoke in such a sure voice, that Dean almost wanted to believe in him.

"And what's that supposed to mean, exactly?" Dean snarled, a more deadly edge taking on his voice.

Castiel didn't say anything for a while. Rather he just continued to stare at Dean, as if he was trying to read his very soul and tear apart the existence of Dean Winchester. Finally he asked in a gravelly voice. "You really don't remember me, do you?"

Dean is suddenly all too aware of how close the angel had gotten to him in the span of minutes, and he took a few steps back. "No, I don't." He replies, now watching the man cautiously. "Is there a reason I should?"

The angel takes a deep breath, looking down from Dean for what seemed to be the first time in their encounter. "No, there isn't. Forget I said anything."

Was it just Dean, or did the angel sound _sad? _Remorse was definitely not a trait Dean would not of imagined in an angel, but then again, he'd never really thought about angels all too often. Up until a few minutes go, angels had simply been fictional creatures in fluffy wings and halos to Dean Winchester. This was clearly not the case.

"Right, so-" Dean started until Castiel interrupted him.

"Dean, we need to talk." The angel's voice took on a more urgent tone.

Dean snapped. "We _are _talking, in case you haven't noticed."

"That's not what I meant." Castiel sighs blankly.

Dean had no idea where this conversation was going. Really, he didn't know how he was supposed to react to this whole angel, chosen by God thing. He held up his arms in a 'go on' gesture. "Well, talk."

Castiel took a breath. "You are not aware of the events happening, are you?"

That would have depended on what 'events' Castiel meant. Dean was entirely and fully aware of the events that were happening right now, who wasn't? Demons had taken over the Earth, and pretty much killed everyone. Of course, the demons weren't the only thing that had brought along the apocalypse. The disease, Croatoan, had wiped out the majority of the world. Both the disease and the demons had scattered the remaining population, hence the refugee camps. Dean was brought up in the central camp, though he was also aware there were other similar camps scattered around America. No one was quite sure how other countries were coping, not when any form of communication had been cut off awhile ago. Though that was another long and tiring story Dean didn't want to think about at that moment.

"I guess that depends," Dean decided to respond. "What events are you talking about?"

"You haven't been told about Lucifer?" Castiel eventually gets to the point. "I am almost certain you haven't' heard of the angels."

"Lucifer? What, no, isn't he just a myth created to scare people? Don't tell me he's real."

But Dean did know about Lucifer. How could he forget that name when he'd been to Hell? Though there was some unspoken gag on Dean, disabling him from speaking about that cursed name.

"Dean, I know you remember Lucifer."

Dean swallowed. He'd almost forgot about the whole angel mind reading thing. "Yeah, so what if I do?"

Castiel hesitated before continuing. "I know that your world is in peril, and it's the equivalent to the apocalypse is looming-"

Something clicked in Dean's mind, and he interrupts the angel. "Oh yeah, about that. You say you're an angel, then where the hell have you been this entire time? You, the angels, just sat back and watched as demons destroyed the world? You did _nothing _as millions of innocent people died? Guess angels aren't quite all they're made out to be." He spat.

There was a moment of silence before the sky rumbled with thunder. With a crack of lightning, Castiel's grand dark wings appear again in the moment of light. They arched menacingly from his back, Castiel's expression taking a deadly and predatory look. The leftover smell of electricity fills the air, and just as quickly as Castiel's wings had appeared, they faded back into the night. Castiel is once again uncomfortably close to Dean, their noses almost touching. Dean could almost feel the angel trying not to grab him and shove him into a tree trunk.

"_Dean Winchester," _The angel hissed. "Do _not _jump to conclusions about my brethren and me. Do you not think we tried to help? Do you think we didn't plea for our father's orders? We are not as heartless as you make us out to be."

Even though Dean wanted to beg for forgiveness right there, he resisted the urge. "Oh so is that what angels are? Mindless machines? You have to have daddy's orders before you take action, huh?" He growls. It's dangerous to say, and Dean knows it. But if he's so valuable or whatever, then will Castiel take the risk of killing him?

Castiel just got even closer, his blue eyes pierced into Dean's skin. "I dragged you out of Hell, and I wouldn't hesitate to throw you back in there."

_Yeah right, _Dean thought, but didn't dare to say it aloud. Instead, he did something much more dangerous. "_Do it."_

For a moment, Dean is actually afraid he's actually going to drag his sorry ass back down to Hell. The air filled with static, the tension in between the pair so thick one of them could have reached out and cut through it. It's as if a bomb goes off when Castiel speaks again. "I do not mistake you for a fool, Dean Winchester. Do not cause me to change my mind. We _will _speak again, do not think this is the last of me or the other angels. Something big is about to happen, Dean. Brace yourself."

With that, Castiel disappeared in the faint susurrus of feathers. The only proof of the scene that had unfolded was a few leftover raven black wings lying in the cloak of fog. _Brace yourself my ass, _Dean thought to himself.

Dean should be mad at the angel, but he was just intrigued.

He had stood in the clearing for what felt like hours until Sam and the others came bursting through the maze of brush. His brother had been calling Dean's name, and he had greeted Sam with a casual smile once he emerged into the clearing.

"Dean, why didn't you come when we were calling?" Sam asked curiously.

Dean shrugged. "Sorry, didn't hear you."

That didn't kill Sam's suspicious expression. "We got ambushed by three demons, Dean."

"And you're obviously okay." Dean pointed out. "Did you gank them?"

From behind Sam, Ash snorted. "Yeah, no thanks to you."

The Winchester's both ignored him, and then Sam questioned Dean once more. "So what were you doing here anyways?"

The older Winchester hesitated before answering. "Just.. thought I saw something."

On their way back to the camp and when they reported back to Bobby, Dean didn't bring up the angel.

* * *

**Author's note-**_Alright, so this chapter took way longer to write than I had originally attended. I had to rewrite it several times but eventually settled on this version. The next chapter or two will not be promptly updated, but in two or three weeks the business of my school year will be over so then I'll have time to focus on this fic! Hope you enjoy!_


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